


I Will Put You Back Together

by s9fie



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bittersweet, Blood, Canonical Character Death, Comfort/Angst, Emotional, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Romance, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Gen, Gore, Melancholy, Other, Psychological Torture, Romance, Self-Insert, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Violence, Wistful
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:40:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24953185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s9fie/pseuds/s9fie
Summary: Young, brilliant, obsessed. You’ve always complained about walking the beat on your own. It’s a hard run with the same old boring cases, and it made you miss the thrill of a good mystery.So naturally, when you’re assigned to a missing persons case down at your childhood diner, how can you resist?
Relationships: Foxy (Five Nights at Freddy's)/Reader, Freddy Fazbear/Reader, Henry Emily/Reader, Michael Afton/Reader, Mike Schmidt (Five Nights at Freddy's)/Reader, Phone Guy (Five Nights at Freddy's)/Reader, William Afton | Dave Miller/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 58





	1. Against My Better Judgement

They say madness is like gravity; all it takes is a little push. You were on the gray line of that spectrum. . . _sanity._

Rippling water weaved through your shaky hands, stinging welts and sores as they cut through chalky skin. You dip your head down to lather your matted locks with another splash of the steaming liquid. 

It was another sleepless night at the precinct, and you were desperately trying to look as presentable as your current state would allow. 

Looking in the mirror, you press your hands along the marble countertop. Dark circles hung from the red-rimmed eyes peering back at you. Chapped lips forced themselves into a painful smile. The crisp white shirt you’d worn to impress the captain that day was drenched in sink water. 

“Guess I won’t be a runner-up for that promotion,” you mutter beneath your breath, “But here’s hopin’.”

Impressing someone wasn’t the first thing on your agenda, but when it came down to a possible pay raise, you sure as hell weren’t one to disappoint.

Especially when you’ve got a big case on the line.

Five missing children. A suspect - an employee disguised in a mascot suit. No bodies. No new leads. It was a disaster of a case really, and you were just the detective for it.

Another missing persons case, another night of no sleep. As much as you missed the soft duvet waiting for you at your rundown apartment - you _did_ love the thrill of a complicated mystery.

. . .

Slumped over in an uncomfortable office chair, you sift through a mountain of paperwork you left untouched for what felt like weeks. Though you felt your senses drift in and out of consciousness, you were determined to chance the ailment. Challenged was the best way you worked, anyway.

You briefly glance up. The precinct was bustling with chatter among the flock of fresh recruits, old friends, and random passersby - it was busy, yet it brought a life to this job that you couldn’t live without.

The absence of voices faded momentarily, giving you the chance to tilt your head in acknowledgement before a voice filtered in place of the incessant telephone ringing and the loud clatter of footsteps.

“Hey partner. How you holdin’ up?”

Your lips part in a soft exhale as you lean into the stiff wood. Your work environment only allowed for a brief window in time to alleviate some tension, but hey, you’d made some well needed adjustments.

“. . .Uh, I manage.”

The simple response elicits peals of hearty laughter from your newest, _literal_ partner in crime, Grant. He’d been transferred to your department a few weeks back.

“Short and sweet. That’s what I like most about ‘ya.”

You roll your eyes in a playful manner, wrapping your fingers around the cup of coffee hanging in his grasp. You bring the cold, ceramic mug to your lips and wince - it was tepid, bitter, and lacked the sweetness you craved.

It was a source of caffeine though, so it sufficed.

“You calling me short, Briggs?” 

He chuckled, “Would you hold it against me if I was?”

Funnily, the constant teasing hadn’t got to you yet. It would’ve driven you insane if you weren’t actually friends with the man. He was a good guy under all that male bravado.

“If I wasn’t swamped in paperwork, you’d be locked up in the bullpen.”

He planted an elbow on your desk, chin resting on a row of knuckles. He smirked - just a small pouting of the lips; a narrowing of the eyes, and a tilting of the head. It was so subtle, it was even more annoying when you caught a glimpse of it. “You won’t get a chance,”

“Try me,” the little rise in the corner of your mouth and the glint of amusement in your eyes sealed his fate. 

His brows creased, “I’ll pass. . .”

Rising with little difficulty, you stepped around him and gestured for him to follow. Rolling your shoulders, you tried not to pay heed to the leering and collective whispers of your colleagues as you made your way down the hall.

Seemed like they were keeping busy with gossip rather than actually doing their jobs, and you didn’t want _any_ part of it.

Grant’s eyes flitted toward the source of your discomfort. “Don’t mind those assholes. They’re just jealous. . .”

“God, what’s it gonna take to get a little respect around here. . .?” You mutter, more to yourself than to him. 

Callused hands found their way around your shoulders, offering a reassuring pat. You waved him away with a feigned smile as you realigned your erratic mess.

“I’m fine. . . Uh, so, any new leads?”

There was little you showed investment in personally. Work itself was every waking moment of every day in this field, but it was expected of you. Closed cases were nothing more than designated milestones. You did what needed to be done. It was a simple task.

Though you found little restraint to be found when his brow creased and his face hardened. It was hard to miss the heavy implication as his eyes found yours.

“Grant. . .? What’s wrong?”

A stiff hand raises to card through his hair and he pauses, trying to find his words. “Look, you’ve been stressing so much about this case and all, so I figured. . .”

“You figured. . .?”

“I figured you needed a break, so I asked the Captain to hand it off.”

Groaning, you found yourself struggling to justify the action - the harsh reality of how much work you’d been drowning in for the past month finally registering. Clocking in every night at half-past when, you only then realized that the lapse in time gave much less hours for yourself, and more frequencies seated at your desk in disdain.

Overtime was a commodity as a detective. Your hours paid the bills way better than the monthly wage did.

“Look, I appreciate you thinking about me, but. . . we’ve made so much progress! We can’t just hand it off now. We’re so close, I can feel it!”

Your pleading eyes pause under the weight of his gaze before it’s shaken off with a scoff. “It’s already been done. You’ve been working this for a month, give it a rest. This case is a dead end, and you know that. We searched the scene many times, and nothing came up. No missing kids, no case.”

“Then search it again.”

“. . .What?” He sounded utterly perplexed at the statement, gripping the cup in his hands tighter than before. Surely you had no idea what you were talking abo-

“You heard me, Briggs. Search it _again_.” 

Unease bloomed from within him. He rolled his shoulders to ease the weight of his vest blanketing his body and ignored the numbed pinch nipping at his stomach. A wry laugh came with a strong push from his chest, “Alright. . . I’ll get it done.”

You seemed satisfied with his answer, the glower in your eyes disappearing almost instantly.

“Good! Let me know what you find, and. . .” You turn to him.

He releases a shaky breath. Under your gaze, he flinches. You look at him for too long, measuring him with this concrete stare as your smile fades. 

His blood runs cold, and a sweaty, clammy feeling overtakes his palms.

“Don’t push yourself too much, _partner_.” You call out finally, rounding around the corner with a wave.

You were. . . quite the puzzle. In the few short weeks knowing you, he had a feeling you were going to get yourself into trouble.

It was just a matter of knowing _when_ you were going to get yourself into trouble.

He just didn’t realize it would be so soon.


	2. Remnants Of Who I Once Was

You weren’t stupid.

Grant didn’t want you near this case - and you were going to pick and prod at every little detail until you found out _why._

Rain battered off the windows of your car; the only thing you had left to remember your family. An old thing from another life; rusty and dilapidated, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to give it up. 

You gripped the steering wheel tightly, thumbs drumming against the rough leather. The hood of your coat hung loosely over your unkempt hair. Your teeth nibbled at your bottom lip while you bounced your leg in impatience.

Since your little encounter with Grant, you’d been visiting the diner quite often - subjecting yourself to copious amounts of pizza and cake.

Not that you were tired of it, though.

You rolled down your window. The diner hovered just above your line of sight. Through narrowed eyes, you could only make out a few words. “Freddy’s,” sprawled in a bold, almost comical, font.

That, and a discount price for their _newest_ addition to the menu. Foxy’s nautical nachos.

You’d made a mental note to try it out later when you were off the clock and _not_ investigating the diner for suspected child abduction.

Still, work always came first, and that meant those nachos had to wait.

You were off the grid, after all. You came for the case, not the food. No partner, no pager. . . just you, a notepad, and your instinct. You trusted it like it was family.

And it was never wrong.

A noise broke through the barring of hissing tires and hammering rain - the slightest rush of footfalls, aside from the muted roar of traffic. You rise from your seat, fingers just barely brushing against your holster.

You let out a breath.

Unhinged doors, a pair of hands slipped over the course edges, a man dressed in a suit of black and purple.

An employee, you supposed. Nonetheless, a possible suspect. A _lead._

You swing the door open, revolver in tow and notebook stuffed in your coat pocket, making your way down to the entrance.

“Excuse me, sir,” your cheeks molded forcibly into an awkward smile, “Are you open, by any chance?”

There was a faint curve to his lips when your eyes caught his. "Well of course! It's the perfect time for dinner, and who am I to turn away our first guest of the evening?"

You chuckle, "First guest? That’s hard to believe when Freddy’s is so well loved.”

“Yes, well, in light of. . . _recent_ events, we are the talk of the town. Though, not in the way we’d imagined.” he frowns, tugging lightly at the cuffs of his shirt.

Bunching your fists at your side, you muster a small smile.

“. . .Bad press?”

His eyes pulled away from yours, worry clipping through his somber gaze, “I guess that’s one way to put it. . .”

You hum, brow creased in a scowl. If you played your cards right, you might be able to get him to talk. Straightening your posture, you plaster on another one of your award-winning smiles, and tucked a loose strand behind your ear. You take on a sympathetic stance, and reach to pat his shoulder.

"Want to talk about it over some dinner? I'm hungry, and I heard the nachos here are delicious."

You rock back and forth, eyes falling to your feet - waiting with bated breath. You needed to make sure he didn't suspect anything, but all of that caffeine was making your heart beat a mile a minute, and you couldn't think straight.

The assurance in your voice had fled too, along with whatever confidence that held your shoulders and ceased the shaking of your hands.

But after you'd finally gained the courage to look up, the new, subtle hint of a smile forming on his face made it almost impossible to turn your attention. He adjusted his stance, eyes flitting from the floor to you in a cold yet captivating gaze. "I'll take you up on that offer," he laughs.

Once his back was turned, you let your smile drop, taking the last peaceful seconds of your night to look around. The diner was just as you remembered it.

Party hats and confetti served as a carpet on the checkered floor. Red - you’d never seen so much of it in one place, and the cherry on top - a stage framed by fluorescent lights.

It was. . . _charming._

You leaned into the leather seats, much more comfortable than your car’s. You hadn’t got enough sleep last night, and honestly, if you didn’t have any self restraint, you’d be out like a light.

You hook your head over your shoulder, eye to eye with the mystery man once again. “Do you have any, uh, alcohol or. . .?”

“We're not exactly able to run a family diner with alcohol as a menu choice, so I hope this milkshake will suffice," he smiles - but this time in pity. “Rough night?”

You heave a sigh, “Sort of. . .”

He took his seat across from you, pushing the milkshake forward. "Here you go," he mutters.

“Thank you, Mr. . .?”

“Afton. William Afton.”

“. . .Mr. Afton," a name. You've read the files, over and over again. He was the co-owner of the diner, aside from Henry Emily. You didn't think you'd cross paths with him so soon, but hey, this was an interesting development. It was too late to back down now.

The trail went cold for a while. Maybe he liked the silence, but you were beginning to wilt under the weight of his gaze. So, you opted _just_ this once to initiate the conversation - trying your best to get the words out without gagging.

It was hard, but hey, you managed to do it.

"So uh - Mr. Afton. . . can I call you William?"

"Of course, dear."

"William," you tested the name on your tongue.

You clear your throat, pulling at the collar of your shirt. "I. . ."

"I remember coming here as a kid. It was. . . well," you pause to laugh, "It was my favorite place on Earth."

He planted an elbow on the table, leaning forward to meet you halfway. "Is that so?"

Resting your chin on intertwined knuckles, you gulped down the guilt lodged in your throat. It wasn't an easy thing to stomach - and the milkshake you'd been downing to distract from the sour aftertaste in your mouth hadn't masked it one bit. 

"It was my favorite place, up until the. . . _incident_. The one in '83, you're familiar with it, are you not?"

He watched the liquid dance up and down - filling the creases of the glass and following your every move.

"The bite of '83," his eyes jumped to yours for only a second, alight with just a flicker of sadness before it dissipated along with his smile, ". . .I _suppose_ that's when people started talking."

"That was the last time I set foot in this diner."

There wasn’t a second you hadn’t thought about that day in ‘83. The memories were still ripe in your head.

You could still remember it like it was yesterday. The silence before a sickening crack pierced the air - a scream - _your_ scream tearing through you like a shard of glass watered by the fresh burst of blood.

Your glossy eyes, wide with horror - atop a rigid jaw. Trying to release the grip of your nails digging deeply into the palm of your hand was near meaningless.

Tears soaking your best friend’s tattered white shirt as you sobbed into his chest unceasingly - hands reaching to pry you away from his limp body and no matter how hard you kicked and screamed - you were held firmly.

Your heart dropping as the machine that tore its canines through the remnants of his skin showed off its permanently stitched smile.

Sirens blaring from all around - red and blue burning your eyes - streaming tears cleansing reddened cheeks. Few droplets remained - forgetting their way as the path was swept from beneath them.

When all you could make out through blurred vision was an outstretched hand - dipped down to hold you close. You were pushed into a swaddle of chest and arms, keeping your shaky feet from meeting the marbled pavement.

“You’re okay, don’t worry. . .”

Worried eyes peered down at you - pale honey locks nipping at your cheeks as he leaned his forehead atop yours. Freddy - your favorite among the bunch - in all his grandeur.

His clockwork heart - though manufactured - raced faster than it ever had. He was programmed as a performer, made to entertain. He wasn’t the best at situations like these - but he’d observed enough humans to blend in almost perfectly.

“Look at me,” he whispered, gliding a hand through reams of hair - and you have every intention to push him away until a soothing melody reaches your ears.

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. . .”

His voice rolled over smoothly - _quietly_ \- yet somehow powerful.

“You make me happy, when skies are gray. . .”

Your breathing slows. It wavers - and you choke down another plea.

“You’ll never know dear, how much I love you. . .”

“. . .Please don’t take my sunshine away,” you croak.

The rest of that memory was banished into the far recesses of your mind. An unimportant blur that brought you to the brink of insanity.

You cast your eyes to the side, fingers laced together with one another - holding themselves together amidst your vulnerability. Your eyes collected and bore tragically every wrongdoing that had been poured upon you, lips upturned but eyes withered and cold.

Sometimes memories are the worst form of torture, and that made you a _real_ winner.

"Are you okay?"

There was a moment's silence before the question registered in your mind.

"I'm. . ." You look around with a bitter expression, "I'm okay."

And before he could utter a word, you cut in again - feigning another smile - a smile like that of a child determined not to weep.

"Anyways. . . this place holds most of my childhood. It looks exactly the same as I remembered it. Warts and all."

"We wanted to keep it as close to our first design - you know? It was a big hit back in the day."

"Still is," you laugh, "You never forget a place like this,"

He sucked his teeth, taking a sip of his own milkshake. "Wish I could."

"And why is that. . .?" You squinted, guilty of moving in closer - elbow brushing against his side.

"My son. He - he. . . _died_. In '83. I couldn't do anything that day. Henry - he. . . he let me have the day off, and _I_ , uh. ." He halted to gather himself, eyes falling to his lap. "I was called that day, I remember it so clearly. I got a phone call from the hospital saying that his frontal lobe was-"

You felt your knees buckle - tensed and disconnected. Your eyes glazed over, mind reeling with the last of his words.

"- _bitten_ off."

He had you hooked - caught in his snare. This. . . wasn't a joke, right? There's no way that he could possibly be-

"Your _son_ ," you bit the inside of your cheek - an unconscious motion that you hoped was hidden well enough to keep your tone from wavering, "What was he doing that day?"

The question was hard to ask - as much as it was to answer. But you dreaded the echo of your own words - barely hiding your reservations.

"He was at a birthday party. I'd dropped him off and left him with Henry. If. . . If I had known he would've. . . then I. . ."

He tried his best to push the words out - but it was of no use. He let out a laugh - a humorless one - smoothing the wrinkles tainting his suit.

"Maybe it's just wishful thinking, but. . ." He sighed, "If I ever had the chance to do it all over again, I never would've allowed him to go. If I hadn't let him then - then. . . he would be alive."

You fidgeted in your seat - trying your best to reel in the last bit of confidence you'd managed to reel in as a farce - but to no avail. Trying to find the words that could lift the weight from his shoulders and onto yours was a tough feat.

"You didn't know what would happen. It's not your fault." 

Your words were reminiscent to the days you told yourself the same.

The days you teetered on the edge like one breath would push you over if you weren't careful enough - though never quite descending into the madness.

Who knew you were one to dive in head first?


	3. All Work and No Play

Elsewhere, the night deepened into silence and rest, but in the rear seats of your car, the brutal din of a makeshift fan - music just barely steering into audible damage - and a bottle of liquid courage you'd downed just for luck - made for a devil's carnival.

You watch the clock hands tick by on your wind-up watch, a chortle managing to slip between hiccups and sips of whiskey.

Your chest rose and fell, almost in sync with the batting of rain serving as a backdrop behind your disheveled mess of a night.

Right now, there was no case to solve - no suspect to catch - no missing children. Just you, a bottle of sin, and an heirloom revolver with a recoil nearly as unpredictable as you. A few ounces of cowardice - but in your hands, a ruthless mark of your authority trapped in a holster.

"To history and its witnesses," you mumble, raising your bottle to meet the cold air. It wells in a soft amber - a hue that belies the harsh aftertaste lathering your tongue. "'cause only God knows I won't live long enough to be done with all this fuckin' work."

Your thumbs brush over the grip, twirling it between intertwined fingers while your other hand busied itself with files you’ve read a hundred times before.

"Five children now reported missing. Five children are now linked to the incident at Freddy's, where an employee dressed as a mascot lured them into the backroom. Freddy's has been fighting an uphill battle ever since to convince families to return to the family diner.

The bodies were never found."

You run your fingers against the page, caressing the crookedly-typed words, as if your touch would capture the memory between each letter - every mark of ink born from insurmountable pain and disgust.

“It’s like. . . whoever did this. . . wants us to find the bodies. . .” Brows creased, cold glass pressed against your lips as you take another waft of alcohol, and legs slung carelessly over the steering wheel - your eyes skimmed over blocks of text.

Flicking through pages, thumb skipping over one in particular - a livewire of certainty sears you down to your bones. “A careless murder would be sloppy in his ways,” the corners of your eyelids crinkled, “An amateur in his guise. . .”

A grim reminder was burnt into the crime scene photographs - a clue so easy to miss if you weren’t being careful enough. The crimson prints splattered against cheap vests and party hats - weaving ever so slightly in synthetic fur.

The mascot suits.

You swallow hard at the image, rubbing the tiredness from your eyes with trembling fingers and a daunting ache that’s beginning to bloom more fully in your chest.

“. . .No amateur could’ve painted a picture like this. Whoever did this knew exactly what he was doing.”

Fanning through forensic reports and forgotten incident reports, you can’t control the painful way the breath is punched out of your lungs when you reach your second epiphany of the evening.

"He. . . wanted to be seen."

It was so obvious! How could you not have seen it? For a fraction of a second - your mind skips like a broken record, sputtering in dizzying circles to catch up with your trembling hands.

“It was an adaption - to stay afloat, he dropped us some bait.” It’s like a sobering slap to the face when the blurry - just barely noticeable lanky figure donning matted fur peeked through the cracked door.

“Seeing him lure those kids into the backroom was the first bit he wanted us to claw onto.”

You can’t help but choke down a wry laugh. "The next bite was the employee ruse. Freddy's has a number of employees at their disposal, but this particular employee needed to have access to the mascot suits - and those are reserved for only known patrons. He needed permission.”

There’s a burning familiarity bleeding through your mask of uncertainty when you turn to spare a glance at the photograph sitting idly away from the plethora of papers scattered against tattered seats.

A familiar face, a set of sad baby blues, a forced smile etched in black and white battling the warmth of honey brown, and fawn locks framing a lopsided grin that works to relax you.

William Afton, and Henry Emily.

"Two owners, one who oversees the employees and one who handles the business, right. . .? One remains clueless while the other - possibly an accomplice. The only missing variables now are the who - and the how. Who did it - and how did they do it?”

You glide your finger down the newly printed news article. "Night Guard needed - open position at Freddy's!"

A modification was needed to align yourself to those variables - and you were willing to put yourself in their shoes to get answers.

. . .

The best part about starting your drinking sessions before work was the lapse in time that allowed you to sober up. It was a careful algorithm that prevented you from getting your badge pulled - one that secured that you'd still have a job by the next day.

But this time - you'd overdone it. Bottles of whiskey were scattered on your leather seats, and the bite of alcohol tainting your breath told the tale of a troubled mind drinking in the company of sun-bleached photographs and a stack of forgotten reports you weren't planning on filing.

You latched onto the last drop of water in the near empty glass - straw slipping through your chapped lips, red-rimmed eyes fluttering to a close.

The front doors of the diner shuddered between two careful hands shutting it to a close. Rain pelleted the panes of glass separating you - and the checkered tiles decorating the floors. It had started to rain during your lone walk down the sidewalks, soaking your crisp white shirt.

It was clear that the clouds were not on your side.

Pausing at the creases of the tarmac was a man dressed in khakis, rather unflattering boat shoes, and a patterned button-up showcasing the patchwork of both black and red hues weaving around the expanse of his arms. He held up an umbrella and a hand to take, but the most striking thing was those same old honey browns framed by a warm smile.

Mr. Henry Emily - the owner himself in the flesh.

“It’s freezing out here - would you like to come inside?”

The pleading urgency for you to leave and gain safety through distance harshly nipped at the pit of your stomach, but you merely shrug with a helpless smile.

“Sure.”

. . .

“You’re free to settle down,” he sets down a glass of water that you reluctantly gulp down. “Anything I can get you? The least I could do is pay for dinner.”

You smile, gently running your fingers against the tacky sheet of white resting over your table. It’s simple and charming - a perfect keep-away that made you feel at home. “There’s no need, I won’t be staying long.”

“Then you’ll have a place to come to for the time being.”

You square your shoulders and muster up as much courage as you can - hands falling to your hips as you meet his gaze head-on. “That’s very kind of you to offer. Thank you,”

He inclines his head toward you, jutting his chin with another smile. “Just doing my job.”

You swallow thickly, forcing the words out of your mouth with practiced ease. “Any chance there’s an opening here for someone trying to scrape by?”

He halts in his step, “There is one - if you’re interested, but I can’t say you’d be paid generously. . .” The crease of his brows and the barely concealed concern wasn’t hard to miss - even with the distance.

“I’ll take it.”

Head snapping up to look at you with twisting uncertainty, you plaster on another smile. “Heard employees get free pizza, and that’s something I don’t wanna miss. Besides, at least I’ll have a job to pay the bills.”

“Then. . . who am I to stop you?” He lets out a laugh, and you almost miss the momentary tension coiling throughout his shoulders. “It’s uh, it’s a night job. You’ll start at twelve - and your shift will end in the morning. Six in the morning. Five nights, and you get your paycheck when we call it a week.”

You take a deep breath, desperately shoving away all your thoughts with a bright grin of what you hope is a somewhat convincing show of eagerness. “You got yourself a deal. I rarely have time for shut-eye, anyway.”

He nods curtly. “I’ll have to discuss this with my partner, so for the time being," Henry sets down a plate of pizza. "Enjoy the meal."

“Thank you.” You mumble, turning your attention to the continuous torrent of rain outside with a sigh. He’s still staring at you - unwavering and still in all his fervor. It’s the shrill ring of the phone tucked away behind the kitchen that breaks the intensity.

Henry winces, bringing the phone up to his ear. He cards a hand through his hair and pinches the bridge of his nose - and when you take in the deep furrow of his brows, you realize that whoever’s on the other line is giving him a hard time.

“William,” he whispers - closing the distance between the phone and his mouth, “I-I can’t deal with this right now,”

There was your answer.

“Listen, just. . . just. . . I have to process the new night guards. Okay? I can watch Elizabeth later.”

Now this was a new development. Two night guards. You - and your newest suspect. Pursing your lips, you shift about in your seat once he’d hung up. “Sorry to keep you waiting. That was my partner, uh - you may know him as William Afton. He runs shop whenever I’m gone.”

This was it - a chance to dig deeper. All you had to do now, was play your cards right. You lean forward warily, “Two people owning a business, huh? Sounds hard.”

“It can be,” he chuckles. “Luckily for us, we aren’t alone.”

You smile faintly, “Luckily.”


	4. These Scars Bring Me Home Again

This might be a mistake, you think.

One that might require some good old-fashioned therapy sessions.

The kind of mistake you thought would better your investigation if you'd taken that god-forsaken job. The kind where you thought it would be just _peachy_ at the sharp onset of daylight - heat sweltering darkness to _actually_ go through with this, though it wasn't like the metallic clatter of pots and pans, the splutter of water leaking from the faucet, and the first sounds of dawn nibbling at the edge of stillness was the least bit inviting.

And now here you were, met with the same gap-toothed neon sign sneered into the bleak avenue. _Freddy's._ The bright touch of dappled orange was still prominent in the dwindling daylight.

Hissing tires on crooked streets - leaves drooping on bowed branches, and wind sweeping the lonely concrete. Even before the string of your hoodie is drawn tight, cold licked at your face and crept under your skin.

Bitterly cold and humid, a truly fitting combination.

"First night?" A lanky figure snapped your attention with the turn of a heel, chiseled jaw lifted with a small, pleasant smile. Eyes blue with an inkling of wistfulness, betraying his expression. "I'm Mike. Mike Schmidt."

"Nice to meet 'ya, Mike." You meet his eyes with a small smile of your own, the fake name you chose for yourself slipping from your tongue with more ease than you would've liked. "You too?"

His forehead wrinkled as his gaze met yours, brows raised and eyes downcast. The slightest, faintest smirk tugged at his lips. A crease of amusement.

"Oh, you have no idea."

Hooking your chin over your shoulder, you jut your thumb out at the diner. "Come on, we have to be there before midnight."

"I think it's a _bit_ too late for that." 

You force a laugh, trying to shake your hands from their death grip on the cuffs of your sleeves. The miserable tightness nestled in your chest only made it harder to think. Training your gaze at the checkered tiles, you take in the dust and grime serving as a floor.

"So," he nudged your shoulder with a reassuring grin, "what's your story?"

Pressing your lips tightly, you meet him head on with an easy smile. "Born in raised in Utah. I used to come here as a kid. Birthdays, weekends. . . you name it. Just being here brings back memories." Your eyes skim the stage and you swallow down another lie, "I know it doesn't pay much, but there's no place I'd rather be."

He hums, "I know the feeling."

You rock back on your heels and clear your throat, pulling him alongside you. "We better get to the office. It's getting late,"

"Right. . ."

He kept a measurable stride alongside you, eyes narrowed in what you can only discern as caution. It's stoically silent when you arrive at the cramped cubicle - and you can't shake off the terrible feeling of being watched.

The cameras flickered with a touch of a button - the two open spaces surrounding you on either side made you shrink back, and you were starting to realize that this job wasn't fit for two.

It's the shrill ringing of the phone beside you that forces you to use what remains of dwindling willpower to not just stare in horror at the dim lights flickering down the corridor. "Hello. . .?"

"Uh, hello? Hello?" A male voice filters in place of the static melody sifting through the air. "I just wanted to call in and help you get settled in on your first night."

"Oh thank god," you sigh. "Thought we would have to figure this out on our own."

He laughed, "It's a good thing I'm here then. The name's Scott. Umm, I actually worked in that office before you. I just finished my last week there, as a matter of fact. So, I know it can be a bit overwhelming, but I'm here to tell you there's nothing to worry about. You'll do fine."

". . .Overwhelming?"

There was a small pause before he continued, "I'll explain, but first, let's just focus on getting you through your first, okay? Company protocol."

"Okay," You squander your reservations, resting your chin on a row of knuckles.

"Uh, let's see here. . . first, there's an introductory greeting from the company that I'm supposed to read. Uh, it's a kind of legal thing, you know? Umm, 'Welcome to Freddy's. A magical place for kids and grown-ups alike, where fantasy and fun come to life.

Fazbear Entertainment is not responsible for damage to property or person. Upon discovering that damage or death has occurred, a missing person report will be filed within 90 days, or as soon as property and premises have been thoroughly cleaned and bleached, and the carpets have been replaced.'"

A frown crept up, your brows perking and your fingers nestling themselves in your pockets with a swift movement. "Oh, I'm sorry, I don't really understand financial talk," your feigned chuckle wended its way through the line.

"Hey, just look at it this way, it's just something the company has to say you know, just in case. There's nothin' here to worry about," he reassures. "But uh, the animatronic characters here do get a bit quirky at night, and do I blame them? No. If I were forced to sing those same stupid songs for twenty years and I never got a bath, I'd probably be a bit irritable at night too."

You stirred, every stiff muscle protested against movement. Sleeping in a car for three nights will do that to you. "So we just make sure they don't wreck the place?"

"Oh, uh, not exactly. I just want you to remember these characters hold a special place in the hearts of children and we need to show them a little respect, okay?"

The hesitance bleeding through his tone wasn't something you could miss - even if you _weren't_ one of Utah's finest detectives.

"Right."

"So, just be aware, the characters do tend to wander a bit. They're left in some kind of free roaming mode at night. Uh, something about their servos locking up if they get turned off for too long. They used to be allowed to walk during the day too, but then there was the uh, bite of '83. Yeah. . . I-It's amazing that the human body can live without the frontal lobe, you know?"

Mike's eyes meet yours briefly. There was something solemn swimming in them - holding a truth his deep blues failed to hide, but only for a second before its forced into a smile. "If you need me, I'll be on cams."

"Alright," you whisper. "Umm, the bite of '83, is there anything you can tell me about it? I'm just curious."

"I'm sorry, there's really nothing else I'm allowed to say other than the incident involved a child and the malfunctioning of one of the characters, uh, Freddy - was it?"

You gulp down a rock of guilt lodged in your throat, "No, don't apologize. That's enough."

"Uh, now, concerning your safety, the only risk to you as a night watchman here, if any, is the fact that these characters, uh, if they happen to see you after hours probably won't recognize you as a person. They'll most likely see you as a metal endoskeleton without its costume on."

You bite back an onset of tears - struggling to keep a firm tone through your tumbling emotional whiplash. You breathed in the dusty air; a reminder of your bruised past. It reeked of rust and day old pizza - a memory trapped within stoking the flames of everything you wanted to forget.

"Yeah, and uh, since that's against the rules here, they'll probably try to forcefully stuff you inside one of our suits. Umm, now, that wouldn't be so bad if the suits themselves weren't filled with crossbeams, wires, and animatronic devices, especially around the uh, facial area."

The plume of your breath billowed out - threatening to drawl your reservations into the night. "They didn't. . . they didn't tell us that we would be dealing with anything like this. . ."

"Yeah, they don't tell you these things when you sign up. But hey, first day should be a breeze, right? Uh, check those cameras, and remember to close the doors only if absolutely necessary. Gotta conserve power. I'll keep checking in with you two as much as I can, okay? Goodnight."

The line cuts just before you can respond. ". . .Goodnight."

You shift in unease, drumming your fingers lightly against the desk - worn and washed in a sallow yellow, chipping the paint with a heavy heart.

Two hands pried yours away from the tabletop in a languid, lingering manner. Mike dipped his chin, trying to meet your line of sight aimed at the flickering cameras. "Hey, what's wrong?"

"Comforting me is a waste of time, Schmidt. Let's just do our jobs like we're supposed to." The smolder in your narrowed eyes barely concealed the scared child within. He saw it in your eyes. The anguish. The frustration. The anger that clawed at you for years. He knew it well, because he was once just like you.

Your hands were frail, shaking lightly under his touch. The pad of his thumb traced the ridges of your knuckles. His eyes leveled with yours, "We could work in silence, or we could light one over it. You seem like you could use a distraction."

You nod wordlessly, eyes following the cigarette he trapped between your puckered lips. He moved closer, lighting the butt of your cigarette with the embers of his - leaving you wading in a pool of baby blues.

Smoke eddied coolly down your throat, remnants of your sweet rush writhing in the air in the form of burning tendrils and smoke.

He takes a long drag, hand still atop yours. "So, you wanna talk about it?"

"No, I don't think I will." The sentence seems to lose its momentum when your eyes find his. "It's not worth knowing, anyway." You divulge quietly, rising slightly from your make-shift seat near the desk.

"I've had my fair share of bad days, and I know what it's like to pretend you're okay and hide what you really feel. You don't need to pretend in front of me."

Your spine met the foot of the beat-up lockers, head hung as they shuddered along with your body. His words echoed in the putrefied air, incessantly ringing at the back of your mind like a mantra - picking and prodding at an old wound.

You have every intention to bite back with a witty comeback and brush him off like you did with the rest of them until all that was left between the pauses in your heartbeat was a rush of footfalls.

"Fuck," The words died between your lips as you stumbled your way to the sliding doors - slamming a clenched fist against the bright red button shakily. "That can wait. For now, we have to make sure we get out of this place alive."

Mike snuffed his cigarette with the back of his heel - ashes spilling onto the tiles while he busied himself with buttons. "Can't see them. If they're moving, they're away from the cameras. Meaning-"

Fear melted into resolve, boiling away with each passing second. You bring a hand to comb through your hair. "-Meaning they could be anywhere and we wouldn't know."

The light switches danced beneath the pads of your fingertips. The brittle plastic buttons were covered in the grime of hundreds of hands. "They're not at the end of the hall. I don't hear or see anything. Check the dining area."

The cheap monitor flickered - and a live feed of party hats and tables stilled into the frame. Two figures stood still, shifting their attention to the surveillance cameras fixated onto them.

Your lips parted, "That's two - we know one's around the Pirate Cove area, but the other two could be long gone by now."

"We don't have much power left. We can't risk looking for them anymore. We _need_ to hide."

Lips pressing into a line, trembling with a hesitation you couldn't afford to have - hands reaching to grasp the doorframe. "We—we can't afford to do that! We won't be safe out there either. One step and we're dead."

His hand pressed against yours, touch rippling through your crumbling resolve - a command of its own. His eyes pleading with the promise of protection.

". . .Do you trust me?"

You sucked in another breath, betraying your inner thoughts with an unwilling nod of your head.

He took your hand in his, pulling you beneath the desk; your only fighting chance. "This will all be over soon, everything's going to be okay." His voice was barely above a whisper, a salve to your aching soul.

Your arms slipped into the safety of his jacket, holding onto him for dear life. "Mike, the doors-"

He weaved his fingers through yours, thrumming heat between pressed palms.

"Let them in."

You clamored to your feet, reaching for the switches, and again you were stranded; buried in a blanket of darkness.

The weary glances that found you far too often to be coincidental. His whispers of reassurance; a promise to ease your dread. The determined smiles he pointed at you; a pact to keep you alive.

"Fascinating, isn't it? The restaurant. Child-like in its wonder, a perfect keep-away. Living in a place like this never gets old. Wouldn't you say?"

Words rolled off the tongue, honeyed and amused with a hearty laugh to match. "Shy, are we? Well, I'm more than happy to wait for our guests to get settled in."

Freddy, in all his grandeur. Even in the dark glow of the flickering lights, you could see his bright blues twinkling.

His chiseled jaw lifted with a charming smile, ruffling a thatch of his brown hair with a tip of his top hat.

"Don't be afraid, I'm not here to harm you. Actually, quite the contrary. I'm here to help you. As long as you're on the clock, I remain at your disposal."

"Without me, they'll find you," the words tumbled slowly and cautiously out of his mouth. "You can hide in every nook and cranny of this place, but they'll make sure you never set foot out of this place for a very long time."

One "thud" traded for another, "You _need_ me."

You buckle over, Mike hurriedly clamping a hand over your mouth as you tried to catch your breath.

The clatter of footsteps slowly closed the distance between the hall and the doorstep. Each step was a child's pace; languid, and just enough to set your heart aflame when he veered too close.

". . .A feature that makes me such an effective performer is, as opposed to my much more outdated predecessors, I can _think_ like a human, where they can't. I can help you. I can get you out of this place. Isn't that why you're hiding? To wait out the night until you can leave?"

Your throat constricted - a frigid intake that pushed the last ounce of fear through a shaky breath.

"Humans like you have an instinct for preservation. A will to live. Consequently, two night guards - such as yourself - are hired to make sure we don't leave. So where do you look for us? The supply closets, the dining room, the stage, the kitchen. You look everywhere _you_ would hide, but there are many places it would never occur to a stranger to hide. But I know this place, inside and out, and so it does occur to _me_. . ."

A rush of light spilled into your eyes once you'd finally gained the courage to open them. Your revolver shook in your holster - its barrel rattling between your fingers. Mike huddled you in the warmth of his coat, arm instinctively splaying around your hip.

". . .Because I am aware what tremendous feats human beings are capable of once they abandon dignity. . ."

Every muscle tightened, a ripple from the floor up to your spine. Your hand coiled around your revolver - each finger taking its place cautiously.

"Let me help you. . ." He finally whispered. "The blood they're out for is not mine."

Mike's face was torn in half, somewhere between scared and lost. He shook his head, a steep inhale broken from a mouth that hung open.

Your chest heaved, "Why do you want to help us? You're one of them. All of them seem to hate our kind."

Freddy's eyes slowly rose from the floor. They were concerned - fearful - almost, with a warmth no machine could feign. A chipper demeanor twisted into a serious one.

"You're right. I am. There's nothing I could say to change that, but. . . if you stay here, you'll die. I can't let that happen."

Rising to your feet, you ignored Mike's protests, brows creased and hand trapped around your holster. "Why?"

He toyed with the question before his eyes met yours. "They'd lock me up if anything happened to you. I'd be left to rot! Replaced! I don't want to share that fate, so please, let me help you."

". . .How do we know you're not lying?"

You were soft in your tone, approaching him slowly and carefully. Soothing his frantic state of mind with a hand on his shoulder. Fear. It was the only thing in his eyes, creasing his face and gritting his teeth.

"You'll just have to trust me."

A pained smile worked its way to your mouth, a small nod clipped with a reassuring glance.

"We should get going now if we want to make it out alive."

Your neck rolled to face Mike with a small, dangerous grin, hand extended to pull him up. "Hey, Schmidt, you coming or not?"

He blinked, eyes shuddering with a cautious glint. He latched onto your hand, rising to his feet with his lips pressed into a straight line.

"As long as you don't get us killed."

Your lips rasped as you laughed ruefully, blabbering on as you shuffled your way out. A small whisper that did nothing to ease him.

"No promises."


End file.
